Winter Dies
by flying-one
Summary: Alternative ending in which Tobias died and Tris is left to deal with the future alone. Until her and Peter's paths cross again unexpectedly. Originally posted to Ao3, because ff net sucks. Most of the fandom seems to be here, so enjoy anyway.


It's strange to drive without getting thrown around in my seat. I still expect it, every time I sit down behind the wheel of my car and start up the engine. But my car speeds across the roads as smoothly as birds fly. Only when you look closely, you can see where they plastered over the cracks in the asphalt.

My breath comes out in little clouds in front of my face. When I get to a stoplight, I hold my hands to my mouth to warm them up. I left my scarf and gloves hanging on the coat rack at the hospital. Christina _told _me not to forget them again, but then they brought in another child with frostbitten feet, and it slipped my mind. I think longingly of my apartment, and the hot cup of tea I'm going to make once I get there.

The city floats by my windows in a blur of grey and white. A few people have put up lights on their windowsills.

Since the fence has been taken down, people come and go as they want, and they bring strange customs from outside. Christmas. Trying to make the darkest time of the year a little brighter. Helping each other in need. I can't help but compare this tradition to the Abnegation. It seems like something my parents might have done.

I'm getting closer to the cold grey houses of the Abnegation sector now. Christmas lights would have looked good on them, but many houses stand empty. The stream of people from outside isn't enough to stuff this particular hole. Even though I've turned up the heating, I shiver. I fix my eyes on the road. But I can still see it, flashing past in the gaps between the houses. The memorial. A big stone statue of two people, holding hands. It's called _Saviours Of The City_. The woman's blank features look nothing like mine, but she's got my height, and she had the same hair. The day that statue was erected, I decided to grow it out again.

I don't like looking at them. Even less at the man. Every time I did, I was afraid I'd forget what he really looked like. That my memory of Tobias would be replaced by this cold, stony, lifeless thing. And he'd become an ideal, and cease to be a person to me. Every time I look at that thing, it tells me what people saw in us. And I don't like it. I'm not a hero. I couldn't save him.

My knuckles are white on the wheel and I have to tell myself to relax. But it's only after the Abnegation sector lies five minutes behind me that I can properly breathe again. I roll down the window and let fresh air stream into the car, ignoring the cold. There are a few people standing around a burning trashcan, their dirty hands held out close to the flames. My fingers twitch.

I remember that day of the choosing ceremony, when the Factionless man grabbed my arm, on my way home from the aptitude test. "Choose wisely, little girl."

That day seems so far behind now. I have to laugh a little at how ridiculous the whole thing was. The Factions, making us choose between them and leave our families. Everything.

There's another figure on the boardwalk, wrapped tight in rags and holding up a sign. _Will eat pussy for food._

I blink twice. Well, that's creative at least. Then I see his face. And I hit the brakes with full force.

He jumps and looks at me. My window is still down. It's him. It's really him.

"Peter?"

Something tightens in my stomach. The last time I saw him, he was begging for us to give him the memory serum, convinced he'd never change, and then when we didn't, he left without another word. I'd always thought he'd left the city for good. But he's still here, dirty and freezing. And begging for food.

Peter doesn't recognise me at first. Then he arches an eyebrow.

"Tris? Didn't think _you'd_ be that desperate. Surely you've got loads of admirers who'd jump into bed with you?"

I stare at him. Does he think—? Wait. Something is off.

"Did you just call me Tris?" I ask. "What happened to 'Stiff'?"

Peter shrugs, but it looks more like a shudder. There's snow in his eyebrows. "Insulting my clients isn't such a good strategy." I still can't tell if he's joking or not, but I can tell his teeth are chattering. I'm in half a mind to roll up the window and drive on, but the sound is unnerving. I know my parents wouldn't have hesitated to open the door for him, regardless of our personal history.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," I say more to myself. "Get in the car, Peter."

He circles round to the door and puts his cardboard sign in the legroom of the passenger seat.

"Don't you think that's a bit tasteless?" I gesture towards it as I turn the keys and hear the heating click on again, and the car spring into gear.

Peter smirks. "I don't know if _you_ know but pussy _does_ have a taste, I can assure you."

I almost forget to take a left turn and swerve an inch past a mailbox.

"Your driving is terrible," he remarks.

I tell myself to breathe. I drive this route every day. It's not a problem. It's just not every day I've got my former arch-nemesis next to me in the car. It's only been a minute, but I already can't remember why I picked him up in the first place.

Peter holds his hands out in front of the heater. The skin of the back of his hands is raw and ripped from the cold.

"Does it actually work?" I ask and brush a strand of hair out of my face. "I mean, do women—?"

"Do women what?" I know he knows what I mean.

"You know—"

"Let me blow them?"

I flinch and he laughs.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, shut up or I'm going to throw you out again," I hiss.

"I don't know why you even picked me up," he admits. "If that's not what you're looking for—?"

I feel the heat rise to my face and clamp down on the steering wheel. We're almost there. I take another left turn and park the car in front of the apartment complex I call home now.

"So I should have let you freeze to death?" I finally find my voice again.

Peter scowls. "How many more times are you going to save my life?"

I roll my eyes. Typical, Peter, typical. "You saved my life too, you know." I slam the door on my side shut and don't wait for him as I stomp up the stairs. My flat is on the third floor. But I don't have to wait. Peter trails after me, brushing off his clothes that are wet with snow melt. I fumble my keys from my coat pocket, after making sure there's no one else on the stairwell with us, and I lock the door again after we've stepped inside. The apartment is warm and cozy. After taking off our coats, colour slowly returns to Peter's cheeks, and my fingers feel considerably less numb. But Peter's clothes are dirty through and through, not only his coat, but his shirt and pants too. When was the last time he was able to change them?

"Um," I say. "You can take a shower. End of the hall, left side. I'll get you some fresh clothes." I shuffle away awkwardly into the bedroom before he can say anything. Somehow, the thought of letting Peter shower here is ridiculous. I remember how, during Dauntless initiation, I got back from the showers once, and he pulled my towel away. I wonder if he remembers too, because when I get back to the hallway to hand him the towel and clothes, he's still standing in the same spot, looking unsure. As if I was planning something, revenge for that day he embarrassed me in front of Drew and Molly.

"Come on Peter, you reek," I say. "I'm not letting you in my kitchen in—" I point at his clothes, "—that." Cleanliness is really the least thing I'm concerned about since surviving a damned war. I've seen worse things than dirt. Peter takes the clothes with an air of indignity. "Whose are these? Because if they're yours I doubt they'd f—"

"Tobias'," I say. "There was a stack of them at Dauntless headquarters and after he—" I look at my hands. "They didn't know what to do with them."

"So you're, what, snuggling with them at night? You could have given them to the homeless," Peter says. I blink at him. I never thought of that. He makes his way towards the bathroom and I'm still standing there, baffled. How did he think of that and I didn't? I head for the kitchen, still mentally berating myself. He's just trying to rile me up, as always. And it still works. I shake my head. Stupid, Tris. Stupid.

Last night's lasagna is still in the fridge, a fact I'm thankful for right now. Christina brought it over to celebrate the second anniversary of the official end of war, and also because she thinks I can't cook for shit. She's probably right, but I won't admit that. And I'm glad Peter won't be the judge of my cooking skills today. I pull off the saran wrap and shove the lasagna into the oven. 390 degrees, right?

I think about calling Christina, but she'd only feel vindicated, so instead, I keep checking the lasagna nervously every few minutes. When Peter gets back from the bathroom, I've set the table and even discovered a bottle of wine in the top cupboard that must have been left by the previous owners of the apartment. Peter's hair is still wet and he's got a towel slung across his shoulders so it doesn't drip onto his clothes. Tobias' shirt is slightly too big for him now. He might have filled it once, but he's lost more than a few pounds since I last saw him. I get the lasagna out of the oven and silently pray he's not going to ask if I made it myself. "Take a seat."

Peter does as I say, but he eyes me and the lasagna with the disbelieving look of someone who hasn't had a decent meal in months, or suspects he's about to be fed poison.

"I'm your charity project," he murmurs, "I get it now."

I roll my eyes. "Does it really matter?"

He shrugs. "I can't pass up on that lasagna, that's for sure, regardless of your reasons for being so fucking nice, I just can't afford to be that proud right now."

And that's Peter for you, weighing the costs and gains of everything, probably even if it takes more energy to offend me than the pleasure he gets out of it, and it seems like it's always, always the latter.

"Yeah," I say. "Tuck in, get something in your mouth so I don't have to listen to your whining anymore."

It is silent for a few minutes, except for the scraping of forks on our plates. It feels good to finally have something warm inside me, I can't imagine how good it must feel to Peter. He even closes his eyes when he chews and I notice there's a new scar on his face, a small cut on his left cheek.

"You used to have a lot of dinners like this with Tobias?" he asks. His eyes are open again and he reaches over the table to pour each of us more wine. I don't know what he's getting at, if he's looking for more pressure points to dig into and hurt me. So I tread cautiously.

"No. It's not exactly like we could. There was a war going on, did you forget that?" I think back to that one night Tobias and I sneaked off to have some booze and time to ourselves, and the way the alcohol made me feel light headed and made me want him, but it wasn't the same as this, it was just a stolen moment. It was rushed.

"And now he's dead," Peter says. "Sorry about that."

"Yes," I say. I don't look at him. For some reason, Tobias and Peter have never mixed well in my head.

"At least you've still got a statue to celebrate your undying love," Peter says. I grimace. He laughs.

"I'd look like that too if I were you. It's fucking ugly. Doesn't really do you justice." I put my fork down. Did he just compliment me? I snort. And then I giggle. I giggle in front of Peter. God, I should cut back on the wine. I shake my head again, still smiling.

"You know what?" I say. "If I could, I'd go buy a sledgehammer and sneak up there at night, and tear the whole thing down to the last crumb of rubble." I'm still laughing. I don't know why the thought is so funny to me.

"You could," Peter says, his face totally serious and I have to stop for a second to stare.

"No I couldn't," I say. "People would be devastated. They put flowers there. Flowers, Peter." Because it's a grave in some way. People mourn. I just wish they'd mourn for Tobias alone. I wish I wasn't included. It makes me feel just as dead.

Peter leans back in his chair, fingertips on the stem of his wine glass. "Oh, fuck people. Tell you what, we go there tonight."

I still don't know if he's being serious, but if he is, I'll seriously have to question his mental capacities. "It's the coldest night of the year, Peter. I'm not putting a foot outside my door, or we'll turn into a statue for real."

"They can call it _Idiots of the City_ then and lay down popsicles to our feet." Peter smiles into his wine-glass. "I still don't get why you want it gone though. Sure, it's ugly. But I thought Stiffs don't care about their looks." The last is said as an obvious taunt, but I'm not going to go into it.

"I guess I just don't want to be set in stone. You of all people should get that."

He looks intrigued, but I don't want to talk about me anymore. "You're different," I say. I remember his desperation as he pleaded with us for the serum. He thought it was the only way he'd be able to change. And here he is, without the serum, changed. "Where were you these two years?"

"Away," he says, round the lasagna in his mouth.

"No shit, I wouldn't have been able to guess."

"Detroit." I've never heard of that place, but I'm not going to admit that in front of him.

"So, what's in Detroit?"

Peter shrugs. "Same as here. Some rubble, people, dirt." He takes another sip of wine. "I worked with the homeless for a while. Clothes and food distribution, stuff like that. They're not so bad. Homeless, I mean. They're honest."

I try to picture Peter handing out food and clothes but all that comes up is Edward's frenzied face when they met again. Edward surely wouldn't have accepted anything that had so much as touched Peter's skin. But in that place, Detroit, or whatever it's called, people couldn't have known Peter, could they? Was that why he left?

"It's not so much what's there as what's not there. But the thing with running away is," Peter says, "even if it's another place, you take your problems with you. That's why being a coward isn't very profitable in the long run."

I put my fork down and just look at him. Maybe it's the wine that's making everything seem soft, or it's the light.

"It looks like running away can at least give you some epiphanies," I say. "When did you come back?"

"Two months ago." It's ridiculous to think we haven't crossed paths in those two months, with population numbers being this low, everyone knows everyone else at least from sight. "But it's a lot harder to stay than run away. People don't want to give me jobs here. Memories are still too fresh, wounds too deep. I get it, I really get it. With what I've done I'm not sure I'd want to employ myself. But I wish people would just look at me and — give me a chance."

I feel a dull pang inside my chest. It's all too familiar. Peter's smile is sad and crooked.

"People see what they want to see," I say.

"What do you see?" There's a moment of tense silence, Peter looking into my eyes and me looking back.

"I don't know." I really don't. But I'd like to believe change is possible, that even someone like Peter deserves that.

Peter laughs. "That's more than I can ask for. I'm not a thoroughly bad person, Tris. But people need villains. And heroes."

"I'm not a hero."

"But that's what they want to see, a hero and a tragic love story."

"Well, people are stupid. We weren't like that. I mean, I loved him, but — I don't know." Maybe Tobias and I weren't _in _love. Maybe we were just two people falling and holding onto each other without ever really knowing who we were. But it wasn't _passion_. Passion was what I had for fighting. Protecting my faction. Fighting for everyone who needed it. Hating everyone who stood in our way.

"I never loved him as much as I hated you," I joke. It feels good to joke about it. I don't even know why I'm telling him all this, except that he's different. He doesn't pity me and he doesn't expect me to be all kinds of things I'm not.

We put the plates and glasses into the sink and Peter takes a cloth to wipe the table and suddenly I'm faced with the problem of what to do next. Of course I should let him sleep here, throwing him out would probably be the equivalent of murder. But he tried to kill me once, at night. The thought must register on my face because Peter stops in his motions.

"What are you thinking of?" Although Candor isn't one of my factions, I decide to tell the truth for once. I don't know what else to say.

"That night when you and Al, you know— I don't think I trust you enough to let you sleep here."

Strangely enough, Peter doesn't look hurt or angry or anything at all. "That's okay. But you should know, I realised I don't gain anything by hating or killing you."

"Is that an apology?"

He shakes his head and looks at his fingernails. "I don't think I can apologise for what I did back then. I _did _almost kill you. And then you went and saved my life. And I saved yours. But now I owe you again. _That's_ what I hate."

I've never understood this aspect of Peter. What does owing have to do with anything?

"You can sleep on the couch if you want."

I'm in bed, staring at the ceiling. The wine makes the walls spin a bit, and the conversation rewinds endlessly in my head. I feel like I'm lying on the edge of disc on a record player, going round and round and round and round with the needle rushing overhead every few seconds, blood rushing in my ears. I'm about to slide off from the centrifugal force, but always just about to. It never actually happens, like I'm glued.

The door creaks. I sit up and see Peter leaning in the doorframe and I shrink back.

"Did you do that on purpose?" he asks. I can't really see his face in the darkness but his voice is rough like from screaming.

"Did what?"

"Make me owe you again." My fingers wander towards the knife I keep hidden in the bed frame.

Peter takes a step inside the room, into the dim light coming in through the window from outside.

"Come on, Tris. Let me repay you."

At first I don't know what he's talking about, then I remember the context of our meeting. He's not proposing— ?

"You think I'd do something like that?" I pull the covers aside, suddenly furious.

Peter's next words sound broken, and he sinks to his knees on the ground. "Please, just use me."

I blink. "You think I'd ever sleep with someone or touch someone who didn't really want to? Just because you feel like you owe me?" I have to get up from the bed. "That's you, Peter. You did that to me. Peter, for fucks sake. Get up." I pull at his collar and yank him to his feet. We're standing so close suddenly, and he's still taller than me, but the look on his face makes him seem smaller. I realise I'm still clutching his shoulder when he brings a hand up and covers mine. It's difficult to breathe.

"I always wanted— fuck." He leans his head back against the doorframe to escape the proximity, but I want to know now. I'm not letting him get away so easily.

"What? What do you want?"

He closes his eyes, his Adam's apple is bobbing when he swallows and his throat looks pale in the moonlight, like something to bite or wrap your hands around.

"You," he says quietly. My heart skips a beat. "You made me so angry." He's still got his eyes closed and is breathing deeply as if telling this to himself. "Nobody thought you were particularly special at first. Just a Stiff who wasn't going to make it past first stage. And the way you talked about yourself. Like you didn't even believe you were special yourself. Just fucking humble. And then you came out of nowhere. Showed everyone. Including yourself." I don't know what to say, but I don't have to because he keeps talking.

"And every time I tried to hurt you, the shit I said to you, I don't even think it hit home like I wanted. It just made you stronger."

His chest if heaving and sinking with his breaths. "So?" I ask.

"It wasn't just that. Yeah, okay. At first it was. At first I really just wanted to hurt you because you were better than me."

"And then?"

"Then I watched you. Training. Always doing extra hours at night. That's the difference between you and me. You're strong because you put in the work."

"What are you then?" My voice is reduced to a whisper.

"I'm weak. I wasn't talking about our bodies." We're silent for a minute, just breathing, and I loosen my grip on Peter's shoulder. His hand clasps around mine to keep it there.

"You showed me just how weak I was," he says quietly. "You don't know how much I hated that. Myself or you, I can't even tell. And you were fucking beautiful while you did it too."

My breath hitches in my throat, and the sound makes Peter open his eyes and look at me. People don't tend to call me beautiful. Fierce, yes. Strong. Intelligent. Brave. Caring. Hero. Divergent. Not beautiful. Never beautiful.

Peter's eyes are pained. "Don't ever say I wouldn't want you again."

His honesty makes me uncomfortable. "Are you sure you haven't taken any truth serum?" I ask.

"I don't need it. I'm part Candor. Did you forget that? I can be honest if I want to be."

I bite my lip. "You didn't show much of it the past few years."

Peter shrugs. "You learn to appreciate your roots once you've got nothing left."

He's right, I think. I wouldn't have taken him to my flat three years ago, not if he'd been lying on the street in a pool of his own blood. Back then, I had everything. The Dauntless, My parents, Tobias, Caleb. They were all still alive.

"Are you cold?" he asks.

I realise I'm shaking. I don't know why. I nod, just because I don't know what else to do. Peter pulls the clean shirt I've given him over his head. "Here, let me." I put my arms up without thinking about it and let him put the shirt on me. His muscles flex when he pulls back. They're still there, even now that he's Factionless. Homeless, I correct myself. But he looks different. Maybe that's because there's not an ounce of fat. He's just slim and pale and defined. The shirt smells of my shower gel, but it mixes with his skin differently than it does with mine.

"You should get back into bed," he says.

"What about you?" I watch his skin in the moonlight.

"I'll be fine." He lets go of my hand and turns around but I grip his wrist as it's falling.

"No. You won't. You'll turn into a freaking popsicle."

Peter laughs hoarsely. "Tris, I've been sleeping in the streets for the past months." But I still don't let go. I pull him behind me and into bed. It's a shit idea. I don't really know what I'm doing.

"If you're trying to make me pity you, it's working," I say as I lie down and pull the covers over us.

"I don't want your pity," Peter says, a trace of the old Peter in his voice.

"Well, too late, because that's what got you here in the first place." I turn around so that I lie with my back to him and stare at the wall, trying not to think about the fact that I'm in bed with a half-naked man for the first time since who knows how long. I listen to the ticking of my alarm clock, wondering how late it is, but I don't bother to look up and check. Time has lost it's value to me. When I was at Erudite headquarters, waiting for my execution, every second rushed past like the train in full speed, with me unable to jump and hold on to it. I remember how I asked for the time every chance I got. And then once, Peter told me. It's 9:24.

Now days pass by sluggishly and turn into months with the same reluctance as spring to arrive. This winter has lasted for a year now.

Something touches my hand. The covers rustle. Then Peter laces his fingers with mine. His hand is so warm, for a moment I forget about winter. Forget about being cold to shift closer. "Thank you," Peter whispers. For the shower or the food, or not pulling away, I don't know. I don't care. Maybe we're both broken. Maybe it's right this way. Two broken halves of the same glass, fitting into each other's jagged edges.

I kiss him before I can change my mind. He still tastes of the wine we had for dinner, and he's still clutching my hand, forcefully now, as if he were afraid I'd float away if he let go. Peter kisses as aggressively as he fights. Using teeth, growling low in his throat and making me shiver. _Just use me,_ echoes in my head as I roll on top, straddle him and bury my fist in his hair to pull his head back and expose his throat. I bite a trail up from his collarbone to his jaw, and feel myself burning with a strange kind of need that wasn't there before.

"Please, Tris," Peter begs, playing with the hem of my two shirts as if asking for permission to take them off. I pull them over my head in one go, and them I'm naked save for my panties. I've never been like this with Tobias. I didn't take his hands and put them where I wanted to. I never felt strong like this when every touch of his told me I was delicate.

"Fuck," Peter moans. His hands aren't like that. They're rough like he knows I can take it, clawing at my skin and scratching and holding on too tightly. I can feel how hard he is through the fabric of his pants and my panties. I lean down to kiss him again, his hands on my hips and nails digging into flesh. I rub myself against him. Burning, burning. Kissing, biting. His lower lip snatches on my teeth, and if that's even possible, the light taste of blood turns me on even more. Peter bucks his hips. At first I think it's just to thrust against me, but he rocks me so hard I lose my balance until I grab his wrists. He tries to flip us again, but I bring his hands together over his head and hold him down.

"I just want to make you feel good," he says, "let me."

I wonder how he can still be so coherent. I know I'm not. Letting go of his hands is all I can do, I'm too dizzy with lust to say anything. Peter slides on top of me, nibbles on my earlobe and I would be embarrassed by the sounds I'm making, only I'm enjoying it way too much to worry about anything. Peter's eyes are shining with moonlight and need.

He bites the wound on his lip as he slides his hands down my body, over my breasts, past my belly button, then dips below the hem of my panties, before he tugs them off so slowly it's agonising. Down my thighs, past my knees, round my ankles, off my feet. I'm completely naked in front of him and I never knew someone's eyes could feel so good on me. His gaze spills across my body, washing away every damn insecurity I've ever had.

Peter lifts my left thigh and lowers his head to bite and lick at every inch of skin he can find. Getting closer and closer but never getting quite there. I can't help but laugh a little. "You're still a tease, just in a different way."

And in my head I think: Come on Peter. Make me feel good.

I can feel his smirk against the inside of my thighs, his breath just hitting the sensitive skin between my legs. It's driving me crazy. "I still hate you," I hiss, grip his hair. And gently push him down.

Peter presses his nose against the small mound just in front of my pussy. His mouth is open, breath hot against me. "Do you know how fucking wet you are?" he asks.

I shake my head and grip his hair tighter. "Tell me."

"You're dripping onto the sheets," he says. "God, Tris. You love this, don't you? And I haven't really done anything yet."

"Then do something," I moan. "Eat me out." I push his head down again and suddenly it's there. His tongue where I am wet and open, lapping at me. I throw my head back and cry out. He _is_ good at this. So good. So so good. "Fuck," I pant. "More. More, more, more."

He swirls his tongue up to meet my clit and sucks on it. Alternating licking and sucking and kissing. I'm slowly losing my mind. But it's still not enough.

"Peter," I growl. His right hand sneaks up my leg, the other to grab my breasts. He lifts his head for a second to look up at me. "You're so beautiful."

I whine. I want him to stop talking, keep licking me. He gets the hint. His right hand travels up higher to caress the insides of my thighs while his mouth is on me. There are sparks on my skin, my body electrified with longing. I want him. More of him. He rubs my wet opening with his fingers and I throw my head back against the cushions, arch my back into the mattress. "In - side." My voice breaks as I try to catch my breath.

He slides in two fingers, just a little bit so I'm left wanting even more. I buck my hips down to get them in deeper, but he moves them away.

"You still need more?"

I grit my teeth. "Yes." Peter uncurls a third one and I can feel myself clench down on his fingers immediately as he slides them in again and starts thrusting in an even rhythm. His fingers come out slick and shining.

"Fuck, yes," I hiss. "More, please. Peter. Want. More." I have to keep myself from wrapping my legs around his head and crushing him. His fingers thrust as deep as possible, his tongue curls around my sweet spot and makes my eyes fall shut and lips part for a strangled gasp. I'm getting close to the edge, I can feel it, building inside of me, waves of pleasure crashing over me with each thrust of his fingers, each lick of his tongue. But I don't want it to end.

"Stop," I breathe. "Peter, stop." He looks at me questioningly, his fingers still buried inside my wet, hot cunt. I pull him up and he lets me lie him down on the bed, pliant under my hands until I reach for his belt.

"No," he says. He stills my hand. I shake it off and unlock the buckle. "Tris, no."

"What?" I ask, rolling my eyes. He's not going to back down now, is he? But he doesn't look like he's having second thoughts. He's still hard to the extent it must be painful. I stroke over the fabric of his pants where they bulge.

Peter sits up and holds me in his lap, his chin on my shoulder. "This is for you, Tris," he whispers, "not for me."

I sigh in exasperation. "Peter — When are you ever going to get over owing people? I want you. Want you inside me so bad," I whisper into his ear. I can feel how it affects him, how he shudders and gets even harder under me. And when I say: "Let me use you," he moans and bucks his hips. His pants are off within seconds. I scramble to get a condom from the nightstand, slide it on him and then I lower myself on top of him. The tip of his cock nudges against my cunt, pushing. I hear Peter making needy sounds in the back of his throat. Feel his hands trailing my back, on my hips, on my breasts, as if he suddenly doesn't know what to do with them anymore. It makes my thoughts heavy and dark with power, knowing I'm doing this to him, making him helpless with lust. I sink down lower, let him fill and stretch me. His fingernails claw at my sides. I brush the wayward strands of hair out of my face before I start moving, riding him. Peter whines, then catches himself and bites his lip. He thrusts his hips up in synch with me, makes me feel him completely. "You're so hot," he moans.

I feel hot. Burning up with pleasure and power and need. "I'm gonna ride you 'til I come," I say, my hands on his chest to steady us. I'm already on the brink, have been for minutes now, but I'm still holding back. I wish we could do this for hours. Just melt into each other and fuck away all the hate and tension we ever felt. Peter's almost there too. I know from the way his breathing changes, his thrusts are more aggressive, more desperate. He lifts his upper body up and slides his legs over the edge of the bed with me still in his lap.

"I can't move like this," I pant. I want it so badly. I want to move. I want to come. I'm feral, not really thinking straight as my body takes over. My pussy is pulsing and squeezing around his cock.

"I need— " Peter groans, "or I'll—" he cuts off but I get the hint. He's gonna come. The thought alone makes me throb all over, makes me want to rut against him shamelessly. But Peter's hands are on my hips, forcing me to stay put. His breath is hot on my skin as he licks at my collarbone, bites his way up to my throat. His cock is completely still inside me. "Peter," I whine, and try to move again.

He mumbles: "Shh," before he takes my hands and drapes them round his neck. And then he lifts me up by the hips. He almost slips out but then he sits me down on his cock again, and buries himself to the hilt. A scream rips from my throat. I don't sound human anymore. The short break did nothing to bring me down from the edge and I'm almost there again, threatening to spill over with each of his long, hard thrusts. Peter's face is tense with concentration, a sheen of sweat coating every inch of his skin. I know he's holding back.

But I want him to give me everything.

"Want you to cum inside me."

He shakes his head. "No, you come."

"I'll come with you."

"Fuck, Tris."

"Fuck me." I don't know where this boldness comes from. It doesn't align with that girl afraid of intimacy I thought I was all these years. Those words belong to a sex-driven animal, and I'm not even ashamed of them. I can see what they do to Peter, how his eyes glint with hunger for me. There's no place for shame.

"Harder," I say. Deeper, faster. Please.

Peter scoops me up in his arms and gets off the bed. He pushes me against the wall with too much force, but pain and pleasure blend into each other as he thrusts inside me again. He grips one of my legs to lift around his hips so I'm spread open. I howl and breathe and moan. I'm so close. It feels like I've been edging for hours.

"Come for me," I breathe. Please, Peter.

He cries out my name and thrusts so deep inside I can feel him hit the end. His teeth bury in my shoulder, biting hard, thrusting hard, breathing hard. He pushes both of us over the edge and my whole body clenches around him as he spills inside me.

It hurts when his teeth let go of my skin. I think I'm bleeding, but I don't really care. I can barely hold myself together on one leg. Peter supports most of my weight, and he's shaking, tumbling back onto the bed with me on top of him. His eyes are closed like he's asleep but I know he's not. He's breathing too heavily.

The bathroom lights flicker before they come on. I clean up and wash myself, and only when I 'm done and dry off, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My first instinct is still to look away, but I get caught on the bruises and bite marks and scratches. I look like I used to after we fought. Maybe some things never change, but the important ones do.


End file.
